Death's Small Problem
by Snurfle
Summary: Albert has been turned into a two year old and Death has to deal. He already had a full time job keeping up with the ppl that died naturally, but now Albert is helping their lifetimers along. Please R&R.


Hey all! Here's another little Death fic, completely unrelated to the first. As per usually, I don't own any of the characters in this story or Discworld, only the idea for the fic and the writing. Enjoy!

* * *

ALBERT! COME BACK WITH THAT! He said sharply. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Death said suspiciously. NO! STOP THIS INSTANT! DON'T YOU DARE! 

Blissfully ignoring Death, Albert continued to crawl along the top of the shelf of lifetimers, pausing occasionally to gnaw on one of the wooden bars surrounding the curved glass of the one he labouriously dragged behind him. When he reached the end, Albert looked reflectively at the absence of shelf and promptly dropped the lifetimer. Time was suspended, or it would have been if time had meaning in the dwelling of Death, as the hourglass tumbled slowly, end over end, the sand forming whorls of a life caught in a precarious web of chance. A spear of light splintered through the faceted glass and was reflected in the glowing blue of Death's eyes, which were widening in horror as he watched the metaphor and the life it represented, topple toward its impending doom.

Death dived across the floor, bone scraping harshly upon the marble as his fingers just slipped beneath the precious object and closed protectively around it. He came to a screeching halt inches away from another colossal shelf teeming with lifetimers. If he breathed, Death would've heaved a sigh of relief, as it was his bones just sort of loosened and he slumped on the floor. There was a sharp tinkle followed by a soft ssshhhhhing and a high-pitched, slightly maniacal giggle. Death, whose skull had jerked up sharply at the sound, thumped his head down heavily on the cool marble. ALBERT!

-------------------------------------------------

Through a curious accident involving several one in a million chances, magic (of course), a verifiable gigatron of improbable and inexplicable events and quantum, Albert, Death's manservant, was turned (physically _and _mentally) into a toddler of about two years. As all young children do, Albert had begun to create an atmosphere of high tension and paranoia due to an obsession of watching things (especially _important _things) break and make noise as well as an obsession of touching things that, while seemingly innocent, can turn extremely dangerous to others**(note) **in a matter of seconds in the hands of a toddler.

-------------------------------------------

**(note)**_ always_ others, never themselves. I believe it's some sort of evil baby mastermind to take over the world for those that can walk under 'you must be this tall' signs with a foot of clearance still above them.

-------------------------------------------

After going to fetch the soul of Gilbert Hartyurk and cleaning up the remains of his lifetimer, Death looked through the walls of his house to find Albert. Sighing, he faded into the kitchen and looked down at his servant. Yellowish grease coated most of the surfaces, except, Death noted, the frying pan shape on the stove. Albert himself was hanging out of a cupboard, broken eggs and raw bacon sprawled about him like puppies in the sun. The smell of burning fat suffocated the air and a random eggshell smouldered on the stovetop.

MY DEAR ALBERT, WE ARE GOING TO HAVE TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOU, Death said shaking his head. Just then a small pop sounded from the direction of the stove and the metal grate was blasted off its hinges as an oily fireball hurtled out of its confinement and engulfed Death in a horrific ball of flaming pig fat. Snapping his fingers, Death extinguished himself …AND QUICKLY. He finished, gazing in annoyance at his charred robes.

A muffled 'SQUEAK' of agreement floated from a quivering mound of lard that was slowly detaching itself from the counter. Death picked up the shape and carefully hollowed out the skull of an indignant Death of Rats.

YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO STAY PUT FOR EVEN AN INSTANT IN ALBERT'S KITCHEN.

SQUEAK! The Death of Rats replied huffily.

_ESPECIALLY_ WHEN HE'S BEEN TURNED INTO A MINITURE SNOT-FILLED BAG OF BONES. HONESTLY, I DON'T SEE HOW HUMANS CAN STAND TO BE IN SUCH A DISGUSTING STATE FOR EVEN _PART_ OF THEIR LIVES, said Death, turning to gaze at Albert, who by now had fallen asleep, tenderly cradling a strip of bacon. A small string of drool dangled from his open mouth, slowly stretching longer and longer until it snapped and a gobbet lazily attached itself to the blackened kettle balanced precariously on what was left of the stove. Death shook his head and faded into his study. NOW, WHO WOULD BE ABLE TO FIX THIS, he muttered to himself, studying the miniature Discworld floating serenely on the corner of his desk.

* * *

Hope you liked it. I might possibly write a second chapter, depends if I can think of any other ideas for this particular scenario. You can tell me what you think just by pressing that little button and reviewing! 

Peace out :)


End file.
